


Rush

by Miya_Morana



Category: Teen Wolf (TV)
Genre: M/M, Vampires
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-01-13
Updated: 2019-01-13
Packaged: 2019-10-09 14:27:08
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,236
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/17408609
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Miya_Morana/pseuds/Miya_Morana
Summary: “This sucks. I crossed the entire continent to get a break from all this supernatural nonsense andthisis what my efforts get me?”“Life isn’t fair,” Derek says, matter-of-factly. He would know. “Have you fed yet?”





	Rush

**Author's Note:**

  * For [morganoconner](https://archiveofourown.org/users/morganoconner/gifts).



> New year, new habits! Because I missed writing, I decided to challenge myself to complete at least one ficlet per week, even if it turns out super short.  
> This one is for my dear friend Melissa, because we were both missing this fandom.

The snow creeks under Stiles’ feet, a soft, muffled sound in the stillness of the night. Everything is soft in the park. Muted, somehow, even though he can see in details he wouldn’t have been able to make out in daylight before.

He doesn’t hear or smell Derek approach. Only his sight has improved, something Stiles is slightly annoyed about. Echolocation would have been a handy skill to have. He should have been startled, would have jumped before, when the werewolf suddenly speaks from right behind him. But Stiles is calm now, his jumpiness and nerves have melted away. He wonders if he’s still really Stiles, if that was a big-enough part of his personality that it missing changes him on a fundamental level.

“You should have called me earlier,” Derek says.

Stiles turns around to look at the werewolf. Sure enough, Derek is glaring accusingly, but his eyes betray his worry under the anger. Derek’s breath hangs in the air, a puff of warmth that Stiles envies him. How long until he doesn’t remember what warmth feels like?

“I was determined to stay out of it. Calling you would have been counter-productive.”

“And how did that work out for you?” Derek asks snarkily.

Stiles grimaces. “It didn’t,” he admits with a sigh. “This sucks. I crossed the entire continent to get a break from all this supernatural nonsense and _this_ is what my efforts get me?”

“Life isn’t fair,” Derek says, matter-of-factly. He would know. “Have you fed yet?”

Stiles shakes his head. “Not unless you count ripping through the ones who did this to me. There was… a lot of blood.”

Derek rolls up his sleeve. The hairs on his arm perk up in the cold air, the veins at his wrist bulge a little as he closes his fist. Stiles stares, mesmerized, looking at the calm beat of the blood. He licks his lips, unconsciously. “Is that even _allowed_?” Stiles asks. “I mean, you’re a werewolf, couldn’t that make me…” he makes a vague hand-gesture, not quite sure of what could happen.

“Lycanthropy isn’t an STD, Stiles,” Derek groans. “I’d need to be an alpha, and the one biting you, and even then it would do nothing because you’re…”

“Dead?” Stiles finishes for him when the silence stretches. Derek winces, ever so slightly. “I guess even if it _was_ an STD it wouldn’t matter, now. Still, this feels…” _right_ , he thinks, putting his hand on Derek’s arm, feeling the blood rushing under the skin, so close, “weird,” he settles for.

“Would you rather attack a random person in the street and drain them?” Derek asks, his voice low and calm, belied by his rising heartrate. “Steal from blood banks and hospitals?”

“What about animals?” he asks, grimacing. Something in his gut is revolted at the mere thought.

Derek shakes his head. “Your body is mostly human, it needs mostly human blood. I’ll heal fast enough.” _Don’t worry about me,_ he doesn’t say, but Stiles knows him well enough to hear it anyway.

Stiles trails his fingers along the inside of Derek’s forearm, and Derek shivers.

“What if I can’t stop?” _I could kill you,_ he thinks sadly. His emotions have been muted too, more like an echo of what feeling is like, but he knows he doesn’t want to hurt Derek. The man’s suffered enough as it is. And Stiles isn’t a killer.

He thinks of the vampires he massacred last night. That’s a lie, Stiles _is_ a killer.

“I trust you,” Derek says firmly, fiercely. With his other hand, he nudges Stiles’ chin up. 

Stiles, whose eyes had not left the veins on Derek’s arms, looks up. Derek’s eyes are blue, their natural blue, not the electric wolf blue. He’s staring at him, frowning, resolute, and absolutely means what he just said.

“We’ve come such a long way, you and I,” Stiles muses. “If you’re sure.”

Derek nods, and Stiles keeps their eyes locked as he raises Derek’s wrist to his mouth, hoping it’ll help him stay grounded. This is the moment of truth, the moment where he finds out if he’s turned into a real monster or if there’s still enough of _Stiles_ left in him.

The skin breaks easily under his fangs, and the blood rushes through, almost like it’s drawn to his mouth. It tastes like copper, sharp and bitter and _so delicious_ , Stiles fastens his lips on Derek’s wrist and sucks, hard.

Derek falls to his knees in the snow, and Stiles follows. He can see the pain in Derek’s eyes, and the stubbornness too as the werewolf refuses to fight, to push him off, to make him stop. And then warmth, real warmth like Stiles hasn’t felt since he woke up in the vampire nest, blooms in his stomach, rushes towards his still, dead heart. The organ gorges itself of blood, and _thumps_. It’s nothing like the normal badum-badum of a living person’s heartbeat. It’s one big, almost painful squeeze every couple of seconds or so, pushing the fresh blood through his system, filling him with Derek’s warmth, with Derek’s life. It’s intoxicating. Derek is looking at him still, pupils blown, with something akin to wonder in his eyes.

The flow of the blood in his mouth slows down a little, and Stiles panics, letting go of Derek’s arm, wrapping his fingers around the bleeding wound. “Sorry, sorry, sorry,” he mutters, his now-pink fingers contrasting with Derek’s too-pale skin.

“I’m alright,” Derek says, voice pinched. He gently moves Stiles’s hand off the wound, and it’s already closing, much faster than regular werewolf healing speed. “How do you feel?”

“Alive!” Stiles grin. “Even better. Like I could do anything!”

Derek’s hand is warm in his, and he can _feel_ it. It’s the same warmth that’s settling inside him. His emotions are a mess of contradictions and he doesn’t care because they’re _there_. He can still feel, still be Stiles. Energy is rushing through him pushing him forward, and before he knows it Stiles is pressing his blood-covered lips against Derek’s, and it should be gross because of the blood but it isn’t. The blood inside him seems to sing when Derek, after a beat, kisses him back. Or maybe it’s just Stiles, because he’s kissing Derek, _Derek_ , his terrifying crush turned reluctant ally turned friend, and it kinda sucks that he had to die before he got the guts to do this, but that’s okay.

Eventually, they walk back to Stiles’ apartment, and Stiles feeds Derek some orange juice (“It’s what they give you after you donate blood, Derek, drink it!”) and steaks (“Ugh, werewolves!”), and they talk. Or, well, Stiles babbles, in a very Stiles way, trying to figure out what that kiss really meant, and eventually Derek drags him into another kiss. When they part Derek can finally say something now that Stiles isn’t spilling a billion words a minute.

“How about we take things one day at a time? Or one night at a time, as it is.”

Stiles rolls his eyes, because he’s the ones supposed to make the bad puns.

“I’m the one supposed to make the bad puns,” he informs Derek.

“It’s not a pun, just a fact,” Derek shrugs. Then he gently squeezes Stiles’ hand. Stiles can still feel the heat of Derek’s skin, a bit more faint than earlier, but there. Real. 

They’ll figure this out. All of this. Eventually.


End file.
